Work hadn’t helped, though he’d heaped it on himself in defense. Worry hadn’t helped, though it was there constantly. His father had returned to Cordina. Seward had been buried. Those responsible remained unknown—or unproved. His father’s life, his country’s well-being, were very much in jeopardy, but he’d yet to erase one woman from his mind. A woman he had no right to desire.

But he did, and desire flared only more strongly when he saw her.

She looked a bit tired, a bit frazzled and very much in charge. Her hair had been braided and clipped on top of her head and she wore large, light-framed sunglasses. As she walked, she talked to several people around her while slipping on an oversized red jacket. The rich hue gave her a look of confidence and energy. Alexander realized she’d chosen it for exactly that purpose. She had a briefcase in one hand, a flight bag over her shoulder. In the ten, perhaps fifteen seconds since she had walked into the terminal, he’d noticed every detail.

Her lipstick had worn off, but there was a slight hint of color in her cheeks. The red jacket had gold buttons. A tendril of hair had escaped and curled in front of her left ear. There was a white daisy, a little droopy, in the buttonhole nearest her heart. It made him wonder who had given it to her, who had watched her plane leave, as he’d watched it land.

When she saw him, the slight hint of color disappeared and her shoulders tensed.

She hadn’t expected him to be there. She knew, of course, that they were to be met officially, but she hadn’t thought it would be Alexander. In her mind she’d planned out the first meeting. She would be rested, refreshed after a long soak in the tub at the hotel. She would have changed into the long, glittery evening gown she’d bought precisely for that purpose. And she would treat him with mild but unmistakable coolness.

Now all she could think was that he was here, looking wonderful. He was so tall, so sturdy. His eyes were so dark, so secretive, they made her want to discover what he hid from everyone else. She wanted to smile, to throw out both hands to him and tell him how good it was to see him. Pride had her sinking into a formal curtsy.

“Your Highness.”

He didn’t notice the spree of flashbulbs or the crowd of reporters. He was focused on her, on the pout of her lips, on the eyes that met his more in challenge than in greeting.

“Miss Hamilton.” He offered his hand. When she hesitated, because she hesitated, he brought it deliberately to his lips. Only he was close enough to hear her hiss of breath. “We welcome you and your troupe to Cordina.”